


Vale of Tears

by Golden_Boots



Category: Original Work
Genre: Erotica, First Time, Flogging, History of the Catholic Church, Hurt/Comfort, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Medieval erotica, Monks, Religious Conflict, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 13:18:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2430251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Golden_Boots/pseuds/Golden_Boots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brother Gregory thinks he can escape his "abominable persuasion" by giving up his body and life to the service of the monks of Valle Crucis Abbey.  Then his merry kindred-spirit, Brother Rufus, joins the Order and all is changed.  A visiting bard sings of love without judgement.  The monks' punishments take on an erotic tone.  And King Henry has set his sights on the destruction of the monks' way of life altogether.</p><p>ICON CREDIT: Golden_Boots</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Night Stair

A flame trembled on the night stair. My candle – ‘twas nigh worn to a stub and at first I did believe ‘twas this fact that made it tremble. Then I saw my hand was shaking. I was about to break my vow of silence and speak with a fellow monk – a vow we Cistercians of Valle Crucis Abbey took wondrous serious, priding ourselves on our austerity. Yea, ‘twas the prospect of the shattering of this vow that made my hand tremble. Understand – ‘tis what I told myself at the time.

‘Twas not amongst my duties to ensure all monks returned to the dormitory after the night office of Nocturns but it seemed only I had witnessed Brother Rufus shaking in the choir, his jaws fore’er grinding on a peppercorn, the sharp taste of which would keep him from fainting during mass. He was sickening for something. He should be in th’infirmary, thought I, where a fire staved off the eventide chill of spring. Howe’er, I had come to know Brother Rufus well since he completed his novitiate some weeks ago and this happy-go-lucky young fellow would always be the last to complain.

The soft padding of bare feet on the night stair. I tensed, unsure ‘twas he. Then a muffled cough revealed the oncomer’s nature. A moment later, Brother Rufus’ freshly-tonsured head hove into view ‘neath me. The shaving had done naught to temper the wild shagginess of his remaining chestnut hair. His broad face tilted upward and he blinked, startled by the candlelight. Knowing neither of us should speak, we stared all the more. I found myself marvelling at the way the red tinge in his hair was echoed in his brown eyes, lending them a rare warmth. This night, howe’er, there was red in the rims of his eyes also and his skin looked unearthly pale. He smiled ruefully, aware I had noted his malady. He placed a hand on the stone wall and made to haul his failing frame up the stairs. I dashed down to hook an arm ‘neath his.

“Brother Gregory,” he whispered in his soft Welsh voice, “thou shouldst not trouble thyself.”

“’Tis no matter. I serve those who are in the service of God. Thou canst do little in that vein if the flesh is weak.” I spoke with concerned authority. Although Brother Rufus was my elder by several years, I had been monk for longer and therefore was considered his senior. “Thou shouldst take thyself to th’infirmary tomorrow.”

“Where Brother Jocelyn will bleed me.” He rolled his eyes. He held the opinion that seyney did more harm than good and ‘twas not his only controversial opinion.

“Mayhap they will allow thee a little meat,” I tried.

Brother Rufus chuckled. Whatever ‘twas that ailed him, it had not chained his spirit. “And then I shall be shaven to purify me of that sin and how will I keep the Llantysilio cold from slapping my cheeks?” He had the beginnings of a fine red beard.

“I shall keep thee warm,” I harked myself say. Then I embraced him and laid my cheek ‘gainst his.

Poor, suffering man that he was, he had not the strength to push me away and he submitted to my caress. He burned like a hot coal in my arms.

‘Twas cold and one of us was sick but perchance they were not the only reasons wherefore these twin flames trembled on the night stair.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

Wherefore on this night of all nights did our collective sin choose to manifest?

I had just led my brother to his bunk at th’other end of the dormitory to mine. The roundsman made a judicious appearance, holding up a lantern so Brother Rufus could see to climb back into his bunk. I pointed to my sick brother and made the sign for infirmary to the roundsman monk, who nodded his understanding. I slipped into mine own bunk, glad the roundsman had not been so thorough in his nightly inspection that he had chanced ‘pon two monks in illicit communication. His lantern creaked as it swung, its source of light moving like a willow-the-wisp as he walked along the aisle and suddenly, there was darkness. Brother William, least vigilant of all roundsmen, had wandered from the arena of his duty yet again.

Though ‘twas yet late in the month of March, I found I was quite warm in my habit ‘neath my woollen blanket. And mayhap ‘twas this unusual warmth that encouraged such languorousness and the activities that followed.

One by one, my brothers slid their hands ‘neath their habits to touch themselves. As always, it began with the sound of breathing growing heavier and heavier. Then the ear became attuned to the fainter sound of the repeated rasping of cloth. Perfidious coughs and yawns disguised the luxurious whimpers of monks engaged in the wicked act of onanism. There was a full moon and though it did not intrude through the dormitory window, it made the nightclouds brilliant. By their illumination, I made out the silhouette of more than one fist rising and falling ‘neath the blankets.

We ne’er spake of these nights. They were ne’er brought up at daily Chapter when we were expected to confess our sins and we were ne’er punished for them. That made it all the worse for me. Rather than feeling we had escaped judgement, I felt sin mounting ‘pon sin, and each occasion was a further descent into damnation. As mine own fingers crept onto my rod, I felt it at once glow like a brand, a sure sign ‘twas an instrument of the Devil. Ne’ertheless, I grasped it and began to move my hand. I could not be so bold as some of my brethren, howe’er, and I turned to my side, pulling my blanket o’er the lower half of my face so the most gross of movements were hidden. Still, I delighted in the sensation in my nether regions as I pulled and pulled, floating on stifled sounds of ecstasy, feeling that wicked broth gather. Some reached their terrible conclusion quickly, beds creaking as spasms shook them. At times, it made me feel I was not alone in being wracked by temptation and that brought forth a strangely pure joy that ran alongside the wilful sinfulness. A feeling of an e’en deeper kinship. Perchance ‘twas not sin after all! Then I saw through the eyes of th’ other monks and I knew the images that processed through their minds were of buxom wenches, trembling maids – perchance they imagined Matilde, the young washerwoman, in flagrante delicto. And I was sure I was the only one who imagined my fellow monks naked and writhing ‘gainst mine own thin frame. The only one who dreamed our blankets and habits were invisible, and each could see the swollen rod and pumping hips of th’others. ‘Twas still mine only cross to bear. 

Flushed with shame, I rolled over, gritted my teeth and wrenched my habit up to my chest so as not to pollute it with the liquid sin that poured out of me and dripped onto my belly. I know not how my brothers disposed of their evidence but I did as I always had done, scooping up the tepid seed and licking my fingers – a final horrid act that gave me no pleasure at all.

A few monks still busied themselves with their members. Make haste, thought I as I rolled back onto my side. Mine ears had had four years to attune themselves to the faint sound of naked feet slapping on stone. The roundsman was returning and catching e’en a glimpse of bare flesh and reporting it was a part of his duty.

I had hoped that ridding myself of this serpent of need would exorcise all thought of Brother Rufus and allow me the peace to sleep but it did not. For another hour yet, I lay awake, dreaming the brown-haired monk had climbed into my bunk and our naked bodies were entwined.

At Chapter the next day, Abbot Francis’ brow furrowed as not the slightest transgression by a single monk was raised. Confronted by fourteen blandly smiling faces, he knew something was afoot but this kindly man only shook his head in exasperation and dismissed us.


	2. Stained

‘Twas days like these that reminded me wherefore I became a monk. I stepped into the cloister and my heart swelled as I found it filled with glorious morning light. The central lawn benefited from the contrast with the white stone of the arcade and was the greenest, greenest thing I e’er had seen. The columns of the cloister were like ivory gilded with sunlight. All along the south-facing corridor, monks sate at lecterns, absorbed in their work. But not dutifully – not today. Today was the Feast of St Joseph and we could indulge in whatsoe’er constructive pastime took our fancy. We might e’en be permitted to talk a little, pair off with a particular friend and walk by the fishpond, e’en venture into the hills and woods although a visit to the taverns of Llangollen would, perchance, not be looked on so kindly! Where monks habitually sate to copy or read from manuscripts, I saw them now painting and carving for art’s sake alone. One had fetched in a daffodil from the garden and was rendering it in ink with his scratchy quill. Young Brother Aidan was being taught to make felt by Brother Thomas. At mine approach, he looked up and smiled. He made as if to rise and accost me – a commonplace action on his part. I smiled and nodded, and moved hastily on.

Brother Aidan always filled me with worry. He was a fourteen year old boy, small and slender with white blond hair and carefree eyes the colour of a fair sky. He had, perchance, the most beautiful face I e’er had seen. He was, howe’er, an oblate. The practice of donating a younger son to a monastery had not been common for centuries and was, in this year of 1537, formally prohibited by the Cistercian order. Howe’er, allowances were sometimes made, especially when money or land was offered in return for the oblation. Brother Aidan was, according to our records, sixteen and as he was no troublemaker (as unwilling oblates had sometimes been) and had a fine soprano voice, we turned a blind eye. But whene’er I saw him, sweet-faced and oblivious to the wrong his parents had done him, I felt guilty in their place. ‘Twould not be till he reached twenty years or so that bitterness would set in, as well I knew. His bunk lay next to mine in the dormitory and from time to time, I had glimpsed his face on those sinful nights of ours, his terrified eyes staring into the darkness. He was too young to understand. No – Brother Aidan could be no dear friend of mine. I felt shame enow.

I found myself a spare lectern and set the love of my life ‘pon it where a sunbeam arrowed directly down like the finger of God Almighty and illuminated its blessèd pages. My great love was to read and to write. The book I had been given to study this year was Gregory Tours’ “The Lives of the Fathers” and ‘twas ne’er duty, only joy for me to read from its pages. ‘Twas mine element – the written word. Nigh on ev’ry day, I sate there reading aloud from or copying this wondrous book. I would lose myself in the lives of others for although I was not permitted to share my feelings and ideas with my fellow monks, the saints of history moved me through the medium of this book.

My position within the monastery was not that of illuminator – I had no great flair for art. Neither was it that of rubricator, adding colour and design to title pages or initial letters. I was a scribe. I could read, speak and write Latin, and there was many a moment I thought it must be fate I had ended up here as I do not hail from a wealthy family as do most of my brethren. ‘Twas my mother, of all people, who had instructed me, though how she had acquired literacy I am not certain. I remember tales as I was growing up on our farm in Nottinghamshire that her first sweetheart had joined the ministry so perchance that is the explanation. ‘Twas in order to immerse myself in the written word and to escape a life of drudgery on the farm that I walked into Wales and offered myself as a novice at Valle Crucis Abbey at the age of eighteen. If I had not been able to read, I would not have been permitted to become a choir monk but would have become a lay brother instead. I would not have worn the habit and my days would have been taken up with physical labour alone, though I would have lived at the abbey still, kept apart from the lives of the true monks.

I am glad of my decision, and as the years have passed and my abominable persuasion has become clear to me, I realise I could not have led a happy life in the secular world.

I bowed to my work. E’en the creaking of the cloister door as it opened did not distract me. ‘Twas only when the rare sound of monks’ voices reached mine ears that I looked up to see our infirmarian, Brother Jocelyn, leading a recovered Brother Rufus into the cloister.

Brother Rufus was popular. His merry face demanded a smile in return and only those with ill-will festering in their hearts, like Prior Stephen, could resist him. Mine own heart lurched when I beheld him, so relieved was I his malady had not been serious. It had taken much of the ruddy colour from his cheeks, howe’er, and left him like a thing of alabaster, so striking in a man of brown hair and brown eyes.

“Good morrow, Brother Rufus!” croaked many an unused voice as he was guided to a seat and lectern directly afore mine. He seemed happy to be there and promptly set out his tools the way he did prefer.

I knew I must not stare and wrested my gaze from the contemplation of the back of his strong neck to the lines afore me. ‘Twas some time afore I realised I was not reading them. Mine eyes were unfocused and I was engaged in a quest to smell him. O Saints preserve me! thought I.

“Greetings.”

My head jerked up. Brother Rufus had twisted in his seat and his great owlish face looked into mine.

“Greetings,” I answered as if ‘twere a response in church.

“I am making stained glass. Wouldst thou care to look ‘pon what I have so far completed?”

I leant forward, attempting to peer o’er his shoulder.

He grinned and patted the bench beside him.

Monks do not care to argue when they have been granted the privilege of conversation so I rose at his command and set myself on the bench at his side. There was naught but an inch or so of febrile air ‘twixt our two bodies.

He lifted the Tudor rose up to the light. I was surprised that it wobbled in its leaded frame but ‘twas a thing of many segments after all. The five red petals sang out the strongest alongside the ultramarine of the sky beyond it. Five green sepals peeked out from ‘twixt the petals – a pretty colour but nothing as vivid as the blue and the red. Brother Rufus held it up to his face and looked at me through the golden heart at the centre of the bloom. Suddenly, he laughed. I started and I was not the only one – laughter was an uncommon sound in the abbey and its joyfulness seemed a little sacrilegious. “Thy face!” he said.

“What about my face?” Was there something odd ‘bout this visage of mine? I had not thought on nor seen mine own face for a very long time. Ordinarily, thinking on how pleasing I might look filled me with guilt o’er my vanity yet now, considering I might offend the eye of one so beautiful as Brother Rufus, it made me ashamed.

He shifted his weight from left to right. “Thou art all yellow – now thou art all red – now thou art a little yellow, red and green!” The godly light that had bathed my back now passed through this square of stained glass and fell ‘pon my skin. No doubt it lent my pale face a more thrilling hue. Ne’ertheless, his playful contemplation of me, so much like that of an innocent child, disconcerted me. I drew his attention elsewhere.

“Pray tell, how didst thou acquire this skill?”

He placed the Tudor rose back on the lectern alongside his engraving tools. “’Twas my father’s profession. He has made stained glass for many monasteries and great houses in north Wales and beyond. I have always loved the art.”

“Then wherefore didst thou not follow him into his profession? Wherefore didst thou become a monk?”

He looked at me in that frank manner of his, ne’er sideways, ne’er coy. “I loved the art, the designs, the colours but I ne’er understood the meaning till I saw them in the windows of Gloucester Cathedral, the light striking down like a rainbow become a sword, the apostles, the saints, the musician angels all wrapped in that blue, that impossible blue…” His ecstatic voice trailed away. “I knew I must spend the rest of my life celebrating such beauty.”

Reader, I was shocked. His reason for taking up the habit seemed not only impious but veritably heathen. This was not the approach of the white monks. “Then wherefore didst thou not join a Benedictine monastery where such ostentation is commonplace?”

“Yea, wherefore, Brother Rufus Vaughan?” echoed a voice behind us, making us start. Prior Stephen had crept up and was staring down at stained glass and monk, flared nostrils making his distaste evident. He was second only to Abbot Francis in seniority within the abbey but his disposition was entirely different. Sourness had withered him. The greyness at his temples and the lines in his face lent him less character than grimness, and with his wide mouth and protruberant eyes, he resembled a handsome squashed frog, if one can imagine such a thing.

Brother Rufus looked up at him unabashed. “My father wished me to remain in Wales close to my home.”

Prior Stephen cocked his head. “And what hold ought the familial world have on a monk of the Cistercian order? Naught. Thou shalt not see thy family again ‘cept it be in direst need.” He shifted his gaze to Brother Rufus’ artwork. “Yon colours are carnal,” he spat. “They have no place in a house of God.”

“’Tis not intended for a house of God,” said Brother Rufus. “The commission comes from the Royal Court.”

“I should imagine,” I interjected, “our King Harry would be flattered indeed to be presented with a rendering of a red rose.”

He looked at me sharply. I am a tall man – e’en so, I have that ability to pass unnoticed as I am modest and discreet in my manners. ‘Twas as if Prior Stephen had seen me for the very first time. Pond-green eyes wandered o’er my frame then searched my face. He looked ‘cross at Brother Rufus then back to me as if to divine what connexion had us united ‘gainst him. I shivered at his cold attention and grew afraid.

“Thy King Harry…” he said darkly but dared not finish his treasonous sentence. His mouth snapped shut, he turned crisply and he walked away.

Concerned mine impudence had drawn attention to our growing bond, I jumped to my feet and made to return to mine own lectern. Afore I left, howe’er, I reached down and tapped the Tudor rose a little awkwardly, like someone petting an unfamiliar beast. “Thy work shall be honoured someday,” I offered, “though mayhap not within these walls.”

Crestfallen doth not e’en commence description of the hurt in Brother Rufus’ visage. His eyes began to travel toward mine but stopped at my throat and dropped again. “I thought not,” he said quietly and we both returned to our work.


	3. Adam ap Harry

“Long did lonely minstrel wander  
Through this friendless land  
Until his failing heart did doubt  
The brotherhood of Man.

Yet in the abbey’s arms he found  
A sacred resting ground  
And Eden seemed to bloom again  
In heart and all around.

They brought him meat on plates of silver  
Plates of silver  
Plates of silver

Ale and apple  
Ale and apple  
Warmed his wicked soul.”

And indeed it did. I watched in astonishment as Prior Stephen broke into applause, encouraged the rest of us to follow suit then handed the bard a plate of silver on which lay a leg of mutton and a cup of house ale. Adam ap Harry put down his lute, accepted the fayre with a gracious nod and began to feast, grinning all around at his audience as he did so.

I had always been aware that Cistercian monasteries prided themselves on their hospitality and that our Welsh bards were made particularly welcome. Yet I ne’er had seen this hospitality in action. There was food enow to feed one of our brethren for three days and the opulence of its presentation was shocking. Conflict must have been writ large on my face. When Adam’s eyes met mine, they twinkled with amusement at what they did find and he took a large slurp of ale as if to taunt me.

Sate around him in Prior Stephen’s private quarters were Prior Stephen himself, Brother Jocelyn th’infirmarian who attended to the blisters on the travelling bard’s feet, me (brought along for my skill in reading and writing) and e’en Abbot Francis himself had been persuaded to break from his duties and attend, although his frown spake he was worrying yet o’er th’accounts.

“Pray tell, Master Adam,” said Prior Stephen, washing his fingers in a bowl of warm water as he finished his own meal of fish and bread, “hast thou visited with many a monastery of Wales?”

“Ah, not enow, not enow!” said Adam, leaning back on the cushions provided and grunting with animal pleasure. “In the winter months, I did find myself wand’ring in the mountains to the west of here, bringing the songs of merry Englande and my scraps of Latin to those who understand neither. ‘Twas a bleak time in many a way, leavened only by th’occasional touch of a hovel’s warm hearth and a hovel’s warm woman.”

Four pairs of eyes contemplated the floor.

“But now I count myself most fortunate to be embraced by such luxury.” He waved a hand, taking in all the sumptuousness of the quarters.

“Ahem,” interrupted Prior Stephen. “These comforts be supplied merely for the benefit of our guests and are eschewed by we monks ourselves. We offer no more in the way of ‘luxury’ than those of our brethren in nearby monasteries such as Basingwerk and Cymer.” He was angling for gossip about his neighbours, eager as always to compare himself t’others and find himself superior.

Adam ap Harry barked a laugh. “And are not these thy private quarters?”

“Indeed,” Prior Stephen snapped. “Both I and Abbot Francis have our own private spaces in which we may focus our attention on the complex demands of administration.”

“And perchance this deep thought is fortified by the presence of fine oaken woodwork and views of the fishpond?”

Abbot Francis looked abashed but Prior Stephen rejoined. “Such things are of no consequence and were here long afore Abbot Francis and I gave ourselves up to the claustral life!”

Adam wrinkled his nose at him as he smiled and I realised he saw through the prior’s mask of piety. “Do not fret, Prior Stephen, pride is but a petty evil, common to all.”

Apoplexy seized him.

“Dear Master Adam,” chided Abbot Francis, “pride is a sin ‘gainst God himself.”

“True.” Adam nodded his great white head. “But to my mind, pride has two divers forms. There is the pride of he who looks in a mirror and finds the shine of his eyes so very pretty –” unexpectedly, he looked directly ‘pon me, black eyes twinkling in a sun-darkened face and I blushed like a maid “- and there is the sin of he who claims to have none yet all the sins he commits in the name of God or king or righteousness are naught but the fancies of his vanity. Tell me, who is the greater villain?”

Abbot Francis smiled. “Thou seest much and far. Didst thou ne’er consider becoming one of our order?”

“Nay.” E’en so, he looked up at the abbot in a kindly fashion. “I decided long ago that joy is a very great thing in this vale of tears and though much joy can be won in the service of God, there are others as rich in secular life.”

“Sins of the flesh,” spat Prior Stephen, his upper lip curling. 

“Are one of those joys, indeed.”

“’Tis fortunate thou hast found thyself amongst monks. I myself shall listen to thy confession, though it take an age to relate.”

They locked eyes, brown of earth ‘gainst green of envy, and on and on went their enmity, though I had ceased to listen.

I was in the grip of the bard’s words. O’er and o’er they cycled in my mind: “pretty eyes” and “joy is a very great thing”. The intense love I felt for the Cistercian order leapt out suddenly and embraced all. In my mind’s eye, I could see a thrilling in all of God’s creation – in the sky, in the stones of buildings, in the dust motes in the air – and all thrilling was divine, whether it be in honour of God as one knelt at an altar or in pleasure of the senses as one fondled a beloved thing. I trembled. I began to weep. This was a philosophy entirely new to me yet it did resonate with things I had always believed e’en without knowing.

“…accusations of licentiousness which have ne’er been levelled ‘gainst we monks of Valle Crucis are being used as an excuse to attack the very institution of monastic orders!”

“Prior Stephen,” said our abbot, “thou shew’st not the proper hospitality towards our guest.”

The prior’s very being seemed to ignite. His arms thrashed as he spake. “And for how much longer shall we be able t’offer hospitality at all? How much longer shall we be here?”

“Brothers Jocelyn, Gregory, please make thy way back to the cloister. This be not for thine ears.” Abbot Francis shepherded us towards the door, his face apologetic and not a little disgusted by what was taking place.

It worried me not. On the way back, I stopped beside a window in whose clear glass one’s own reflection could clearly be seen. I saw a long, white face that looked as melancholy as the soul that resided within it. The chin was not strong but the cheeks swelled and offered a pleasing arc to the face. The hair was coal-black, thick and it feathered about the cheeks and brow. And mine eyes! They were grey and, I knew, seemed sometime as colourless as rainwater but that day, they sparkled, sparkled! I was in love with mine own eyes! And, mayhap, if I could love them, so could another.

My brethren were making their way into church for Vespers – I harked their Gregorian chant magnify as they stepped one by one into that great, echoing holy place. Mine already lifted heart soared all the more.

Last in line was him. ‘Twas clear he had been late – he had no candle and his arms flapped uselessly at his sides, a sheepish smile making dimples in his cheeks. I dashed over and tapped his shoulder. Brother Rufus smiled the moment he saw me. I pulled him around the corner into a place where no-one would pry and I grasped his face in my two hands, staring wonderingly into his wondrous eyes.

There was laughter in them. He had no clue what I was about though I told myself throughout that he knew all, that his smiles were an invitation. His merriness made me smile also, then I bent down and planted my lips squarely on his own. I twisted my head, smearing my lips ‘gainst his and drank in all I could in that moment of that generous, that exquisite mouth. My mind was singing. Yet when I put back my head, I witnessed a face that looked as if it had been struck, his brown eyes huge and drenched with fear. I came to feel his entire frame rigid as the bole of a tree in mine arms. At once, I let him go but there he remained for a moment or so, shaking his head, visions of hell surely assaulting him, afore he ran away to the sanctuary of the church.


	4. Come Hither

They feared for me, my brothers. Ev’ry place I went, monks’ eyes were ‘pon me. Ev’ry place I went, silent tears spilled onto my cheeks. When we sang in the choir, my voice cracked as I choked on the beauty of ideas I had polluted. In the refectory, I could not eat – I could hardly drink.

Abbot Francis sate beside me once – I was dimly aware of a bald pate, rosy cheeks – and wiped away my tears with his ‘kerchief as his eyes searched my face for signs of affliction or glorification. He took my hands and turned them over, inspecting the palms for stigmata. Brother Jocelyn could find naught by way of sickness and in Chapter, when Abbot Francis kept me behind after our daily meeting, hoping that in private I might confess whate’er troubled me, I remained a statue. Mine accidie could not be cured by confession. I was a lost cause. As soon as I could escape these suffocating, loving brothers, I would away to the forest, and let cold and hunger pass their sentence.

‘Pon the third day, I was summoned to Abbot Francis’ private lodgings – a building away from the rest of the abbey and fast by the Eglwyseg River. He there informed me he would take his leave of us awhile. Mine armour of melancholia was pierced.

“Whither shalt thou go?”

“Yorkshire. Fountains Abbey. There is to be a meeting of abbots from all monasteries of our order. Fear not,” spake he afore I could protest. “’T’will not be an uprising like the Pilgrimage of Grace and I shall be in no danger but these be difficult times, thou dost understand, though we have ne’er felt the changes yet.”

I did not respond.

“Prior Stephen shall take charge whilst I am gone.”

A cold serpent seemed to wriggle up my back at those words but I felt I deserved it. “Wherefore dost thou tell me this, Father?”

He paused and stroked the book he was carrying. He looked not as if he were about to speak some great truth but that he was concocting a lie. “I should like to appoint someone to take care of my personal affairs whilst I am gone. Prior Stephen is more than capable yet I would have someone with a more gentle hand take care of my doves. And if Prior Stephen finds th’accounts troublesome, thy literacy may help him succeed where he can ne’er succeed alone.”

I nodded somewhat reluctantly. I was being tricked into committing to life.

“Whilst I am gone, thou mayest use these rooms for private contemplation. ‘Tis warm herein – the windows catch the even sun and thou mayest light the fire at will.” He crossed to me – I stood yet by the door as if making ready to leave at the first opportunity. He placed a hand on my shoulder and spake lower this time. “Yet I wish thou wouldst tell me what troubles thee! Do not fear to unburden thyself – I may give absolution at will and I cannot believe that, if thou hast sinned, it can be a sin so very terrible. That ‘tis one I have ne’er encountered afore.”

He tried to meet mine eyes but how could he when now they were blinded by tears that poured forth in a torrent? Instead, he placed a hand on my tonsured head, prayed, “Bless thee, Brother Gregory” and left me in peace.

In peace! I crumpled ‘gainst the wall and gave myself up to my misery.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The fire was low in the hearth. By the light, I could tell the sun also was getting low and soon the sacrist would be ringing the bell for Compline. I must have sate there more than an hour staring at the white walls of Abbot Francis’ simple, graceful room. ‘Twas a peaceful place but the abbot was wrong – I would find no peace there. My fevered presence was the enemy of peace. I rose, pressing down with my heels and pushing myself up the wall. I closed mine eyes ‘gainst the abbot’s sweet gesture and rolled to the side, grasping the door and pulling it ajar.

A hand grasped mine arm. Mine eyes flew open and looked directly into those of another monk – one who at once pushed me back into the room and closed the door.

I quailed in the face of my tormentor, powerless to push away the strong arms that manoeuvred me into a corner of the room where no window could shed light ‘pon us. How e’er could I touch him in anger? A beatific face loomed afore me, eyes eager and smile lighting it from within. Brother Rufus had had a revelation. He was shaking his head as he did afore only this time, ‘twas to refute all my protestations afore I spake them. Still, I harked my voice begin, “No, Brother Rufus -”

He kissed me. O’er and o’er. He held my head on either side and snatched kiss after kiss from my sighing mouth. I could feel my tears fall again yet still his lips smiled – forsooth, I could feel it through the kisses themselves!

Abruptly, his kisses ceased yet he pressed his body e’en tighter to mine. I tipped back my head and moaned like a maid ravish’d. Biting his bottom lip in his excitement, he fumbled ‘neath my habit and tunic till his hand found the instrument it sought. He grasped it at the base and squeezed it like a happy child snatching up a lost toy. I winced then as he began to move his hand, so rough in his enthusiasm, so keen to see my crisis come soon, all I could do was splay my hands ‘gainst the walls and cry out, “O! O!” again and again. It did not feel quite the same as it did when I touched myself – ‘twas cruder, more terrible, more exquisite. I found myself grasping at his white habit, feeling for a moment something hard e’en through those layers of coarse cloth, then his free hand was guiding mine to his place of pleasure and I felt it. My fingers pressed around his pizzle and at once, he began bucking in my hand. I felt hardness, warmth, hair, softly sliding skin, a touch of wetness as the head brushed my palm.

Brother Rufus’ face smiled yet but now divers emotions bled through. There was a touch of pain at the corners of his mouth, his forehead creased and his eyes were narrowed, eyelashes now and then fluttering ‘gainst his cheeks. We grappled with each other’s members like men who had lost their minds, standing so close we breathed each other’s breath, yet those were the only ways in which we touched. I could not bear it. I leapt forward and began to kiss his blessèd face, his nose, his chin, his cheekbones. I was pressing my lips hard ‘gainst his temple, as if seeking to penetrate his very mind, reaching out with my tongue to feel those long lashes quiver. His left hand rose and clasped the back of my head, compelling me to press my forehead ‘gainst his own. Like this, we stood glaring into each other’s eyes quite as if we were enemies. Brother Rufus pulled at my clothes again till my rod was exposed to the air. And our sight. Quickly, he revealed his own and then four hands were running up and down those pizzles, sliding them ‘gainst each other. I felt his nether hair prickle me, glimpsed his cod swinging beneath as he pumped his hips relentlessly. “Gregory, O Gregory,” he said, pulling back so just the heads of our rods met in a kind of kiss. He looked up at me with an expression half-stunned, unbelieving such delight could exist.

My mouth sought his, kissing deeply this time, feeling tooth and tongue as well as lip. Our manipulations grew frantic and soon Brother Rufus was whimpering into my mouth. The pleasure was ‘pon him and I took my time enjoying ev’ry aspect of it – his little cries, the shuddering slackness of his mouth, the jerking in my hand and splash of wetness ‘cross my wrist. Bathing in his afterglow, ‘twas only when I looked down and saw my hand smoothing the white cream into his twitching, failing rod that I realised my pleasure had also peaked.

Was it good or evil, what we had just done? The thought had not crossed my mind since a hurricane captured me but then, as we stood catching our breaths with our eyes downcast, doubt came creeping. I made haste to wipe my hands on my tunic undershirt where no-one would see and ran through excuses in my mind wherefore I should wash mine own clothes rather than hand them o’er to Matilde.

Then I did hark something so unexpected. A laugh, a precious laugh. Brother Rufus was looking at me with eyes like stars and chuckling. The miasma was dispelled – ev’ry muscle relaxed. There was a clasping and a last kissing and he was gone into the twilight. My lover was gone.


	5. A Battle 'Twixt Truth and Lies

One would have thought I should have struggled to apply myself to my work with my belovèd only feet away but the abbey’s accounts proved so knotty, I could not work at all unless entirely absorbed by the figures.

We were back in the cloister, this time bending to our usual tasks. ‘Twas raining on the lawn, the soft hiss blending with the murmur of my fellow monks as they read aloud. ‘Twas a cool day and we were permitted to wear our sandals if we so wished. I had watched Brother Rufus slide his feet into the leather, wriggling his toes to make them fit and then I had been distracted, thinking on the vow we had made to be the ones to wash each other’s feet come Maundy. I would wash them so languorously, expose as much of his calves as I could yet remain decent in th’eyes around us. I would pour water down them. The hair ‘pon his legs would darken and lie flat ‘gainst his skin, looking thicker and more potent than afore. ‘Twould, that is, if he had much hair ‘pon his legs. I knew not. I had fallen to contemplating what his naked form might be like. I hoped for some hair on the body, ‘though not much – enow to accentuate the features of his chest and belly. He would have good muscles. Brother Rufus was a few inches shorter than I but was, forsooth, more huskily built. I smiled, thinking, O that familiar brawny Welsh stock! Then I cursed myself for applying such bestial terms to one so elevated. When Prior Stephen had slammed th’accounts onto my lectern with the species of anger toward inanimate objects one reserves for when one is at the height of one’s frustration, I was grateful. Begrudgingly, he had shewn me what he had failed t’understand and what work he required of me. Abbot Francis had been gone barely two days yet e’en now, Prior Stephen’s face looked haggard. He was a swart fellow and i’faith required to shave more oft than other monks but that day he looked near a week ahead of us, a grizzled shadow obscuring the lower half of his face.

With a gentle nod, I took the scrolls from him and set to my work. Numbers, columns, dates danced a jig in my mind. My finger described geometric shapes on the page as I sought to keep track of the flow of information. Ev’ry fibre of my being was bent to the task.

Someone laughed.

‘Twas an annoyance. I ignored it and continued to pore over the abbey’s finances.

“Psst.”

I looked up and was surprised to see Brother Rufus, who was seated two lecterns ahead, had turn’d on his bench and he grinned at me openly. Much as my heart pounded whene’er his face looked ‘pon mine, I frowned at him now. ‘Twas no feast day and we were not permitted to communicate, ‘cepting the use of sign language and that only when necessary. ‘Twas not as if he were new to our ways – his novitiate had lasted one year and ample time had been had t’absorb our rules. I dropped my head back to my page, flicking mine eyes to indicate he should do the same.

“Thou art engaged with th’accounts, Brother Gregory, art thou not?” he hissed.

I nodded.

“Hehehehehe!”

I ventured a look of opprobrium though it appeared the arrows from mine eyes of grey only goaded him to further naughtiness. He twisted his face into the most extraordinary grimace.

Brother Aidan, seated directly behind him, yelped at the face he made and turned to look at me, the intended benefactor. Surprise, amusement and bewilderment blended in his innocent features.

“Thou makest such a face when thou hast numbers to wrangle!” Brother Rufus imitated me again, squinting one eye and sticking out his tongue. I laughed like the snort of kine and harked a ripple of soft laughter move through the monks that sate along the western aspect of the cloister. Still, I would not raise my head again for fear I would generate more devilry on his part. Did he care so little for our rules? I must confess, one half of me wished to snatch him up and go whirling into the wild woods while th’other envisioned that coxcomb visage smacked into contrition.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I shall write something now that is very wrong indeed. ‘Tis a sin of pride e’en though it be absolute truth. Our Chapter House is the finest in all the land. There – ‘tis done. In no place in Wales or England wouldst thou find a prettier place for brothers to meet day ‘pon day to speak of monastery matters. This chamber of creamy white stone tells of purity without strain whilst the columns remind this monk of fine, straight beeches in a sainted glade rising to a vaulted canopy that shields us from the common world. Light streams in through our south-facing windows and oft I have sate in the path of a buttery sunbeam as Abbot Francis listens patiently to our daily cares and parleys with us on how best to run our beloved Valle Crucis. ‘Tis mundane. ‘Tis delightful. And there ‘tis – the purpose of the life of a monk. The discovery of the delightful and the good in the very ordinary – ev’ry day, in ev’ry moment.

‘Tis also the place in which we are expected to confess our sins.

“From this day forth, thou shalt lie at the door of the choir at the ringing of the bell and suffer thy brethren to step o’er thee as they enter the choir to perform th’Offices. This shall continue till Abbot Francis returns and determines if thy punishment be complete.” Prior Stephen was adamant.

A murmur rose from my brothers and I was relieved t’observe I was not the only monk with shock writ large on his face.

Brother Thomas spake. “Good Prior Stephen, i’faith, Brother Aidan here has confessed to his sin most readily and for such a petty misdemeanour, it doth seem a grave punishment, one ne’er meted out afore by Abbot Francis in my memory.” His memory was a goodly one and long – he was one of the oldest of our group. A giant of a man in his time, he now resembled a thorn tree on a hillside thrashed by so many winds it nigh kisses the ground. He had entered the cloister under the administration of the previous abbot, and numberless priors had he seen come and go.

“Dost thou question mine authority? In the absence of Abbot Francis, I am Christ’s very representative at Valle Crucis.”

“Nay,” said Brother Thomas, who was a deeply pious man. “Only thy judgement.”

The air was filled with the silent sound of brothers cringing and Prior Stephen trembling in his wrath. ‘Twas several hellish moments afore he retorted. “Our Brother Aidan has himself confessed, with no wheedling from me nor any of his brethren, that he succumbed to carnal temptation when he asked for and procured more than his daily portion of salt to flavour his food. Be this not evidence enow?”

Shaking his jowly head and speaking as if to a child, Brother Thomas said, “’Tis not evidence nor truth I speak of but a punishment that is too severe for the crime.”

And then, to my horror, mine adored one spake with a farmboy smirk on his smooth features. “I’faith, the fish was undersalted that day. Brother Aidan merely brought the seasoning up to a level with which we are all more familiar. He cannot have been th’only one who desired it thus altered!” He ended on a laugh, of all things, spreading his hands and addressing our entire group. Once more, we dropped our eyes so the prior could not look into our souls and see this truth.

Prior Stephen’s eyes popped. He began to stalk up and down our line, gesticulating like a mummer. “Sins of the flesh are sins of the flesh, one leads to another, how canst thou be so blind thou sees it not? All of thee were tempted that day and resisted – canst thou not see that this was good? But Brother Aidan succumbed and for that, he must be punished!” He ended his promenade afore the self-same brother. The blond boy was shaking and could not meet his gaze. Prior Stephen glared from ‘neath a sweating brow. Aye, e’en his hair was drenched in this anger-sweat and hung in coils at the nape of his neck. Ganymede met the Gorgon.

“Brothers, forgive me my sin!” whispered Brother Aidan. “I embrace my punishment. ‘Tis a verdict from God himself and I submit to it gladly.”

I knew the prior was right yet I could not but hate the way his presence sullied the felicity of this room, his black smoke presence in this honeyed air.

He straightened, seemed contented by Brother Aidan’s display of obedience. Almost. He turned his back to us and laced his fingers behind him. “Brother Rufus – step forward and confess thy sin.”

My young monk looked blank. “I have no sin to confess, Prior. I did not o'ersalt the fish.”

“Brother Rufus – step forward and confess thy sin,” he repeated, e’en more quietly this time.

“I know not what thou desireth me to say.”

Infinitely gently, Prior Stephen said, “I might remind thee ‘tis considered less of a crime to confess to a serious misdemeanour than ‘tis to hold back on a petty one.” Infinitely sinister.

No, do not do this, I bade Brother Rufus in my mind, do not open thy mouth and tell all!

He turned his head and glanced along the line at me, panic gleaming in his fathomless eyes. 

How had Prior Stephen lain bare our secret? A thousand nightghasts passed afore my mind’s eye – a brother with a grudge lurking without the abbot’s lodgings, listening; Matilde crying out in disgust as she washed our linen, flinging the stained articles from her; marry, e’en Abbot Francis’ doves themselves offended by our corruption, flying to Prior Stephen’s shoulder and whispering in his ear –

“Dost thou love merry-making and tomfoolery more than thou lovest the Lord?” Prior Stephen turned back to face us. A feline look had stolen ‘cross his face. “Be the sole purpose of thy claustral life to play the jackanapes and have all thy brethren sunk in carnal laughter with thy gargoyle faces?”

I watched as the burning rose fell from Brother Rufus’ cheeks as he realised Prior Stephen was upbraiding him for his clowning and not his sins ‘gainst nature. Yet fear and uncertainty still lay ‘pon him. His lips pressed one ‘gainst th’other; he gasped like a landed fish. “Nay,” said he, “the truth be that I do love merry-making nigh as much as I do love the Lord.”

Aye, a fool he was. Caught ‘twixt truth and lies, he had reasoned ‘twere better to confess this sin and have done with it. Yet what a sin, to love animal life as much as the Lord!

More than one of our brethren gasped, recoiling from such blasphemy. Prior Stephen raised his arm as if to strike the miscreant then stalled, letting the venom out in hissing tones instead. “Come forth, take off thy habit and lay thyself down afore the cross.” As Brother Rufus stepped into the centre of the room, the Prior went to the book cupboard and removed from it an instrument that most certainly was no book. ‘Twas a bundle of fine rods of hazel or willow, and its purpose was to mortify the flesh.

O Brother Rufus! thought I. Wherefore art thou so much akin to the glass thou lovest? I see through thee, to thy thoughts, the very secrets of thy soul and if perchance I see not, thou tellest me and the whole world! Yet his transparency did not diminish his mystery. Like light on stained glass, it lent him only brilliance.

Brother Rufus pulled off his habit o’er his head and rolled down his tunic to the rope about his waist. His body was as I had imagined it – thick-set and white, gleaming in the pale morning sunlight. His hair was mussed by the removal of his habit and it obscured his tonsure. I yearned to reach out and trace the line on the back of his neck where tousled lock met ivory skin. As he knelt and began to lower himself into a crucifixion pose ‘pon the floor, it occurred to me that I would not have the fortune to see his naked form from the fore and confirm whether hair graced the contours of his chest or no. Regret twinged in my breast.

Devil that I was! Did I wish to see him beaten ‘pon the belly?

Brother Rufus was shaking. There seemed not an inch of his flesh that could remain still. He was like some fronded creature from the submarine world pulled out of its element and quivering in the sand as the foot of alien Man descends to stamp out its life utterly. 

Prior Stephen stood directly above him, looking down with contempt.

Tales leapt up at my mind like hungry dogs – told me I should play the knight, snatch up this maiden in peril and bear her to safety. Yet what maiden was there here? Called I this brother monk “maiden”? Called I myself “knight”? I was a fool, a fool!

Agonisingly slowly, the Prior raised his arm for the first strike and when the arc reached its apex, he addressed us all, saying, “Cast down thy eyes and put up thy hoods – this be not for thee to see and wonder on.” We obeyed. Cutting then through th‘o’erwhelming silence came the hiss of the rods through the air, the crack! as they met the skin of Brother Rufus’ poor back and his first involuntary cry of pain. My whole body jerked as if I had been struck myself. Strike number one.

Strike number two (there were to be seven in all, one for each of the deadly sins). Brother Rufus did not cry out this time though what pleasure it gave him to withhold his pain I knew not. We still harked the whimpers deep in his chest as he fought with the language of his betraying flesh.

Strike number three – no cry but now I had an image of him in my mind, the scarlet welts rising in bands ‘cross his back, his perfect skin suffering so honourably, so beautifully.

Strike number four – his scream was brief yet sharp as a knife. There was a pause, a shuffling of feet as Prior Stephen altered his position so his blows would fall diff’rently and not ‘pon, perchance, already broken skin.

Strike number five – the vision now floated afore me and could not be banished. I saw Brother Rufus’ face, his mouth stretched in silent pain, no colour in his eyes but the silver of tears, a sheen of sweat ‘cross his entire body. ‘Neath his buttocks and quivering thighs, his member was filling with blood, pushing ‘gainst the cold flagstones. In sympathy, mine rose, too.

Strike number six – as he suffered in his extremity, I lay on top of him, his passion passing into me through his body heat. We were both naked. My pizzle throbbed as it pushed ‘twixt his thighs. My hands caressed his bloody sides. My tongue swept up the sweat from his shoulders and neck.

Strike number seven – Brother Rufus whimpered as the rods came down; groaned in the aftermath. His cries were nigh drowned by several of his brethren who had broken down alongside him. “Arise, Brother Rufus,” said the Prior in a voice thick with emotion. “Cover thy sinful flesh. Thou shalt join Brother Aidan in his punishment. Now take thyself to th’infirmary.”

Brother Aidan fell to his knees and had to be helped from the room. I briefly saw Brother Rufus’ tortured back, blood and sweat running together, as he drew his tunic and habit o’er it, wincing as he did. Prior Stephen stood panting and staring blankly at the spot where my sweet one had lain. And then I saw mine had not been the only rod to rise – his made a grotesque lump in the front of his habit. I shuddered and stumbled from the room.

‘Twas ‘pon that day I came to understand there is something bestial in men. That I could witness the thrashing of my belovèd, see him at his most vulnerable and desperate, and feel the violent joy of life spring up within me… I must be a low thing indeed.


	6. Things Near

Two days afore, he had kissed my hand. I had slipped into th’infirmary under the pretence of ministering to those old stagers who lived there now, Brothers James and Owen. Brother James, unable to speak, unable to rise from his bed any longer, had stared at me with rheumy eyes as I read from the gospels. Brother Owen, possessed of a demon who made him dance and laugh when e’er he was awake, had perpetually interrupted me with outpourings of, “Hey nonny nonny” and “There was a wench who once I loved”. All the while, I glanced sideways to where Brother Rufus lay.

Brother Jocelyn had him on his belly whilst he rubbed Friar’s Balsam into his back to shield his wounds from malign influence. The hard line of th’infirmarian’s mouth spake that he took no pleasure in punishment’s spectacle. Brother Rufus’ back was a red oblong with feath’ry sides. Slashes of deeper red appeared hither and thither, darkening now to brown. As I had passed, he had grabbed my hand and kissed it without looking up. My thoughts captured the sensation and cycled it o’er and o’er, till this nothing point on the back of my hand burned like holy fire.

Later that day, he lay prone for me again, abject as a kicked dog, beside the silently weeping form of Brother Aidan. The rest of us looked ahead and stepped o’er them both as we made our way into church for Vespers.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The ducks were no longer hungry. ‘Twas twilight and they wished to retire from my presence, from the presence of the fool who stood beside the fishpond in the evening mist, absent-mindedly throwing stale bread into empty waters. They glared at me baleful as Gwyn ap Nudd’s hounds from the green and bronze bracken. I was lost in reverie, kissed ‘pon the hand so many times in dreams the glow had spread to my waking body. I lost the bone-stabbing cold of this hill-crowded valley, turned my back ‘pon the lowering presence of the abbey and pressed mine own lips to the spot. They felt like splinters of stone compared to the fulsome kisses of him.

A fox shrieked. ‘Twas far away, yet I seemed to smell its musk afore me. The diff’rence ‘twixt things far and things near began to shrink as the light failed. Real and not real, material and spirit, all merged in the twilight. I turned back to the abbey and saw an incubus approach. I lived amongst monks, was one myself, yet this brother in his unearthly white habit seemed foreign and frightening to me. Relentlessly he came, marching more like a soldier than processing as a monk ought. Once within ten yards, he threw back his cowl and I saw ‘twas, as I had known it must be, Brother Rufus. His mouth was trenchant, his eyes huge and swallowing. There was to be no denying him. Yet still I harked myself softly cry as he grabbed mine arms and forced me back into the bracken, “O my brother, ‘ware, ‘ware!”

The fox had made in a hollow nearby a secret place for himself to lie in the day. At the sight of us crashing toward him, he leapt to his four dainty feet and slunk off into the foothills of Eglwyseg Mountain.

He pushed me down in the dell. I smelled a thousand things at once – fox, the honeyed smell of bracken, the medicinal vapours of Friar’s Balsam, the heavy musk of his maleness freed as he pulled his woollen habit o’er his head. The linen tunic followed and then his nakedness was bearing down ‘pon me, white arms and white chest, mouth crashing hard ‘gainst mine own. ‘Twas not as it had been afore, tentative and clumsy. He had both his arms about me, a hand at the back of my head forcing me up to meet his lips. He was purposeful as any lover from tales of romance. I felt cossetted and devoured.

Something new moved ‘gainst my lips and I apprehended with a start ‘twas his tongue sliding o’er me, then pushing ‘twixt my lips to probe the treasures of my mouth. I cried out, cried into his mouth and I knew my entire being gave up all resistance then, and I lay quivering like a doe with a wolf’s mouth ‘pon its throat.

Brother Rufus sate back. Like a madman, he began to tear at the rope belt that cinched the waist of my habit, seeming to vent all the anger he felt at injustice and constraint on the knots that fixed it tight. With a great flourish, he undid them and thrust the two loose ends to either side. He grasped both habit and tunic, and lifted them o’er my head. An open hand on my chest thrust me down onto my back. I looked up, imagining I would be witness still to the bared teeth of his unreasoning passion but that look was melting away as he gazed ‘pon my thin, white body. ‘Twas replaced by a look I can only describe as carnal compassion. The inner corners of his eyebrows pushed up in a plaintive expression. He gasped and fell to kissing my body. He kissed my chest and belly, my hips, the hollow of my hips beside my privy member, my stiffened rod itself, my hands, my neck, my cheeks, all the while running his own hands along my flanks, urging me on. ‘Twas all I could do to hold on to the turning world. I cried out, disorientated, and grasped sward in my fists, half begging the greenery to hold me fast, half begging to be fore’er uprooted.

I could not hold onto the Earth. I had to touch him. I clasped his sides, too, his sturdy ribcage pulsing with his deep breaths ‘gainst my palms. My fingers crept o’er his back and lit ‘pon his wounds. Brother Rufus drew in air sharply ‘twixt his teeth and raised himself ‘pon his elbows. I watched his face, entranced, as my fingers explored the raised flesh and two days’ old blood, drinking in ev’ry wince, ev’ry quiver, as I passed o’er one raw spot after another. A tear emerged from the corner of one squeezed-shut eye and plashed ‘pon my chest; feeling sprung from the exquisiteness of pain merged with the joy of having the visible marks of one’s pain acknowledged by another. He smiled and looked at me with eyes that spake, Dost thou see me? Dost thou know me? as more tears fell. I nodded, returning his smile and my hands moved up into the rusty mane of his hair. He dropped his face into the crook of my shoulder. We two writhed ‘gainst each other then, just sliding flesh ‘gainst flesh, bellies pushing into one another, rods battling ‘twixt our thighs. And suddenly, his arms encircled me utterly and he had turned me onto my front. He meant to make a woman of me.

I yelled, unsure I could bear what he meant to visit ‘pon me. A hand clamped over my mouth and he was at mine ear then, as he arched o’er me, uttering pleas and words of reassurance. “Hush now, Gregory, my Gregory, hush. I prithee…” His voice sounded thick and smoky, unlike it had e’er been afore. I sank my face ‘gainst his hand by which signal he knew I would succumb to his request. I must have this terrible thing…

His hands moved down my back to my behind. I felt fingers clasp then part my buttocks, exposing that vile and tender place to the evening air. O shame, shame! I knew he looked at it, and I wanted to run away and hide, and I wanted nothing more than to lie face down amidst the wet weeds, helpless and ashamed.

I did hark him spit, felt a damp hand run up and down the split in my behind. ‘Twould not be enough, I knew e’en then afore I became master of this depraved act, to make the entry of his rod gentle. A hard lump pressed ‘gainst my nether hole like a baby’s fist thumping ‘gainst my side. It did not seem possible it might pass into me. It pushed some more and I harked Brother Rufus muttering as he twisted and adjusted his awkward position. I stared into the undergrowth. I knew I must let go, give up my body to the demand for entry the way I gave up my soul for the Lord to enter. No tension, no resistance; let joy fill thee. I gave in, went limp on the grass.

Brother Rufus seized his advantage and penetrated. I felt a molten, golden sword push deep into my being, as if trying to rout something living inside me. I arched my back and cried out, fingers clawing at the mossy earth, fetching up great clumps of it. ‘Twas all I could feel, the pounding of his rod, white pain bleeding to gold, as a part of my body that had seemed a wall became a window. Mine own member must also have risen but I felt it not, all mine attention focused on his burning rod. He could not, would not, stop now, I knew, though all the brethren of the abbey sought to drag him from me. He fucked me with a crazed demanding, grunting with ev’ry thrust.

Slowly, I became aware of more: the slap of his hips ‘gainst my buttocks; the ends of his fingers digging into my flesh like talons, holding me in place. He moved forward, covering my cold back with his warm belly. His breath was at mine ear, his lips sliding ‘gainst it and his hands came down o’er my shoulders to brace himself ‘gainst th’earth as he did. Our voices ran together, simultaneously harmonious and disharmonious, like the passionate confluence of two rivers. To think that sweet Brother Rufus of the white skin and gentle smile was fornicating with me now like some mad dog or devil…! ‘Twas unconscionable and ‘twas happening.

Just when I thought I could endure the burning pain in my nether hole no longer, Brother Gregory began to whimper high in his throat and his hips to vibrate more than thrust. I knew what was to come, I had felt it mine own self and recognition pulled a smile from my quivering mouth. I bit my bottom lip and reached ‘neath myself to pull on mine own swollen member. Within moments, my crisis was ‘pon me. My seed squirted onto the bracken but this peak seemed inconsequential beside Brother Gregory’s volcanic climax that swept both of us away. The young monk’s pained cries rang in mine ear – his muscular body clamped o’er mine and squeezed – his rod shot a torrent of heat deep into the secret places of my body. I wept to be the receptacle for such joy.

So there we lay, naked as heathens in this holy green place as night came down like a blanket, hiding us from the condemnation of the world. Still, our bodies rocked together though now we moved from side to side as we cradled and comforted one another.


	7. The List

“Picture in thy mind how ‘twould be if we monks were no longer here to tend to the upkeep of the abbey.”

We were heading down from the Llantysilio Mountains to the west and the golden abbey lay in the valley bottom afore us like a plover chick in its nest. Its graceful west front and rose window gleamed in the autumn sun. We were holding hands.

I sighed at Brother Rufus’ words. Despite the challenge of our liaison, I knew I loved Valle Crucis more than e’er.

“Nay,” said Brother Rufus, looking at me with round eyes. “I mean it not as a sad thing but as something joyous. Imagine robins nesting in the eaves of the dormitory, green springing from cracks in the white walls, the high altar wreathed in ivy-leaved toadflax!” He spake with a thrill in his voice, his free hand waving in the air.

“And all the beauty we have wrought for the glory of God come crashing down!” I shook my head.

“But is’t not what the bard spake of? Thou didst tell me he did. Nothing can diminish the glory of God because God is in all.” He stopped walking and stopped me from walking. He laid his palm ‘gainst my cheek. “All.” His earnest eyes searched mine.

“Mayhap. Mayhap God can see the beauty in a rotting corpse but I am not God and I see it not.” I looked down, feeling I had disappointed him.

He moved closer. “’Tis a heathen image, forsooth, but I find myself with St Francis in this matter, in love with Brother Sun and Sister Moon.”

I smiled. Yea, a love of nature, e’en that of ourselves, was a part of our heritage, too.

“How now!” ‘Twas Brother Thomas calling up from the valley floor. In an instant, our hands fell to our sides and we moved apart. “Abbot Francis is home. There is to be a meeting in the Chapter House.”

“Good brother, when?” Brother Rufus’ sonorous baritone rang ‘cross the valley.

“Now!”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Surrender?” Prior Stephen jumped to his feet.

“Nay. I shall ne’er surrender. I shall bid adieu to this place only once my soul leaves my body. But I shall not consign my flock to the same fate. They have been proffered the chance to return to their former lives without censure or molestation. The abbey’s lands and belongings shall be turned o’er to the King but there shall be monks at Valle Crucis pursuing their ‘vain and superstitious round of dumb ceremonies’, as the Protestants would have it, till the very word monastery has left the English tongue.” Abbot Francis had returned from Fountains with a smile-less visage but a sainted light in his eyes. I worshipped him now more than I e’er had done afore.

“But thou asketh of us to take the cowardly road? To return to the feculent world beyond our borders to fight and swive and say our prayers on Sunday like all the rest of God’s little hypocrites? Not I!” Prior Stephen plunged his hands into his curls, gnashing his teeth as he attempted to shake such traitorous ideas from his head.

“What will happen, Brother Abbot?” said Brother Thomas quietly.

“Soon, Thomas Cromwell’s men will come and what we do not hand o’er to them they will take by force. All resistance shall be met by their violence. I, I cannot allow that to happen!” Brow furrowed plaintively, he spake to us all. “We must not resist. ‘Twould be more than I could bear to see the churches of thy flesh done harm as they shall do harm to these churches of stone. There is a list of names.” He indicated a scroll ‘pon the lectern. “Those who find their name writ there must come to me and I shall ready them for their new life. They should leave as soon as they might.”

With a great cry, Prior Stephen struck himself ‘pon the head with both his fists, making the brethren recoil. “Not I!” he screamed again. “Not I!” For he knew his name would appear ‘pon that list, cursed as he was with a temper that could not stand by and watch his abbey defiled. He rushed from the Chapter House having ne’er glanced at the wretched list.

Abbot Francis’ mouth trembled. He had lived close by Prior Stephen for many a year and knew better than most the demons that dogged him. He walked through our group of murmuring brothers and took up the scroll. After one sharp breath to steel himself, he read out the first name. “Brother Aidan.”

Our youngest brother’s eyes instantly poured with tears as he stared around him, wondering what further ill he had done that he was singled out thus for banishment. I myself shook my head and glanced at Abbot Francis only to find him looking ‘cross at me with sad, knowing eyes. I looked then at Brother Aidan and saw him as mine abbot urged me to – a delicate and beauteous creature whose charms would not be o’erlooked by rapacious soldiers. He was – obvious. He had always been obvious. With fear in my heart, I looked to Abbot Francis ‘gain; found myself lost in the softness of his expression. Then I knew it. He knew about me, too – he had always known!

Another monk’s name was called and he draped an arm about Brother Aidan’s shoulders and led the sobbing boy from the room.

And then, I harked the name of my belovèd. Brother Rufus clamped a hand o’er his mouth and stared up at the ceiling afore rushing from the chamber as so many more now were doing.

I stood there blankly, my brethren roaring and bustling about me, till I harked the inevitable: mine own name called out. I broke free from whate’er accidie embraced me and took Abbot Francis’ sleeve in my hand. “Let me and Brother Rufus stay behind. Do not send us from this place, the only place where we have e’er been able to find true happiness. There ne’er was any other position for us. We would stay here to protect and serve till the utter end.”

Forsooth, all my brothers were pleading the same yet methought there was a glimpse of affirmation in the eye of the abbot when he looked ‘pon me. ‘Twas enow – I left the Chapter House.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As I made my way back to the dormitory to lay ‘pon my bunk and weep, I found my belovèd stood at the door of the choir looking down ‘pon the prone figure of Prior Stephen. He lay as Brothers Rufus and Aidan had lain in punishment at his command. The prior sobbed, and rolled back and forth, till his tears formed twin streams that soaked the hair at his temples. “I have sinned! I have been like some were-creature that must be shackled in the moonlight to keep it from harming those it loves! I cannot be trusted.”

Brother Rufus looked down and spread his arms welcoming wide.

“I have sinned the sin of anger and I have prided myself ‘pon it where I should have cursed myself and now I am punished for’t!”

“Come,” said my young Welshman but as it became clear Prior Stephen would not rise into his embrace, he reached down and lifted him into his arms. The taller man buried his face in his shoulder and Brother Rufus stroked his wilting curly hair as he told him, “The claustral life is not about pride or curses but kindness. And forgiveness. I forgive thee. Let it go.”

I wandered without and watched like a dreamer as the lay brothers brought four waggons onto the precinct and began to load them with supplies and our few but precious belongings.


	8. The Beginning Afore the End

And then there were seven. Abbot Francis kept to his private quarters when not fulfilling his duties. I glimpsed him through the windows from time to time as he stood or lay afore his golden cross, praying in perpetuity. Brother Jocelyn maintained th’infirmary and its permanent residents. Brother Thomas remained in charge of provisions and the refectory, as he had always done. His old bones would tolerate yet the long walk down to the market town of Llangollen but would not gird themselves for flight. Judged hale by our brethren, Brother Rufus and I were charged with the care of the remaining sheep and maintenance of the claustral buildings now the lay brothers were gone.

We wandered the grounds of the silent abbey. The cries of the sheep seemed loud in our ears now and like something to which we must cleave. I suggested we allow the sheep to wander the cloister as the chickens did, and Brother Rufus laughed and said, “Wherefore not?” The tapping of their hooves became most welcome, and oft they came and laid their smiling heads in our hands, unafraid, as we kept them for their fleeces only and ne’er slew them. Yon forbidden places, the lay brothers’ dormitory and refectory, were open to us now. Like children exploring a hidden garden, we crept through the rooms, lifting objects and peering round corners. All th’abbey precinct was ours and slowly my belovèd and I uncovered all its potential.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Maundy in the cloister. Brother Thomas had gone to market, Abbot Francis accompanying him. Brother Jocelyn hardly left th’infirmary now, claiming Brothers James and Owen took up all his time, though we knew ‘twas because ‘twas th’only place he felt secure.

Brother Rufus finished washing my feet. He took away the bowl and patted me dry with rough linen. Once ‘twas done and the articles laid aside, he began the second phase of his ministrations. Smiling, singular dimples appearing in his cheeks, he pushed my habit up to my waist. My pizzle knew what was to come and he found it standing. Slowly, Brother Rufus rolled back my prepuce and sucked the head into his mouth. After much licking and rubbing of the organ ‘gainst his lips, he grasped it at the base and permitted the full length to penetrate his mouth. With a suction I found extraordinary, he moved his head up and down, much in the way I moved mine own hand in self-abuse. ‘Cepting this was far sweeter. I leant back, turning my head to the side and resting it ‘gainst a window’s fluted white column. September sunshine warmed me.

The first time Brother Rufus caressed me thus, I did not believe ‘twas possible. For years, I had been tormented by dreams of being licked or of doing the licking but to envision a mouth that could draw one in as powerfully as they say a woman’s nether place may do…! ‘Twas almost frightening, the strength of his grip on me.

I looked down. I have always kept my body free from hair when e’er I can. It doth make me cleaner and closer to a newborn babe in the eyes of the Lord. As Brother Rufus suckled, I could see the skin at the base of my pizzle stretching and relaxing, stretching and relaxing. His spittle began to coat the shaft and it gleamed in the light. All at once, he stared up at me and it seemed I saw some malevolent thing look out from his skull. His eyes glittered darkly, their rims turned red and methought his lips grinned around the intruding organ. But marry, I grew not limp at the sight of this devil – it goaded me to further decadence. I clamped my hand to the back of his head and began to thrust my rod into his mouth.

Brother Rufus’ expression changed as he struggled to accommodate the new tempo, becoming more plaintive. Once or twice, he gagged as my rod attempted to force its way down his throat. He was fighting to breathe, his eyes now very round and I had to make myself stop, though ‘twas hard indeed. At once, Brother Rufus began to suckle lovingly again, his face calm and beatific. Yet I could not help, Dear Reader, but jerk my hips now and then as he hit some tender spot.

My peak was approaching. Brother Rufus commenced moving his gripping hand in time with the movements of his mouth, running his other hand up and down my thigh as he did so. Angel he looked now. My seed began to rise. I tapped his shoulder as I had done afore to let him know ‘twas time to turn his head from me. This time, he would have none of it and proceeded to suck e’en more strongly, with more devotion. The heavenly foulness would spill into his mouth! “No, Brother Rufus, enow!” I cried e’en as my bestial nature had me tangle my hand in his hair once more and buck up into his softness. He remained clamped ‘pon my rod as my spasms crashed o’er me. When I had returned from the void, he looked at me most solemnly and swallowed.

“Now there is something of thee within me,” he said. He laid my habit o’er my legs, kissed me softly that I might taste what that pagan mouth had done and disappeared from the cloister.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

How lovely is a man’s throat. So much admiration is paid in word and image to the swan necks of women but is a man’s throat any less lovely, less vulnerable? Thick muscle and thin skin, men’s necks are all about the contrast ‘twixt strength and weakness. It may be a powerful structure, and a man’s beard may rasp the skin and burn the tongue but a thrown back head turns ev’ry man into a Saint Sebastian. My lips found the softest spot on Brother Rufus’ neck just below his jawline and sucked on it, absorbing his warmth like some revenant of myth. We were both naked, curled afore the fire in Abbot Francis’ lodgings. We lay on our sides, Brother Rufus’ back to my belly as I feasted on his neck and shoulders, turning his head round to face me so I might kiss his lips and all the contours of his broad, pretty face.

He was prettier than me. More charming, more powerfully built. I wondered at times how he could find pleasure in my sapling frame. I was surely too pallid, too dull a companion for one such as Brother Rufus. Perchance, he should have set his sights on some exquisite beauty like Brother Aidan, whose eyes were such an extraordinary shade of blue.

Brother Rufus would have none of it, said ‘twas Brother Aidan who was too bland for his taste. He admired my mind (but, O, not my sapling frame?!) If I complained too much, he scolded me, said he would punish me for my doubting with the hardness of his rod. Ev’ry time, I abandoned my fears as I melted. 

This time, I reached for the goose fat as ‘twas I who would penetrate him.

He was ready for me. I placed my mouth o’er his as I slid into him, feeling him sigh into my mouth. I found the embrace of his bowels a comfort. I wrapped mine arms around him, nuzzled my face into his neck as we swived, wanting to see and feel and hark naught but the pulsing of his firm, soft body. And yea, I did instruct him in how to bring joy to the fuckee, as I reached o’er and stroked his pizzle as pleasure mounted.

We were not always naked together. Sometimes we were clothed in our habits entirely, such as when we sate together in church and kissed. Sometimes, only one of us was naked and th’other clothed. This oft was sweetest of all yet it brought more guilt anon. When we did this, ‘twas no return to the naked innocence of the Garden of Eden. Nor yet was it a defiance of laws that state two men cannot love each other as can man and wife. No, ‘twas purely for erotic delight, that which has its origin in the mind more than the body. Brother Rufus would have me suck his privy member in the dormitory. He would walk into the room naked as a Greek god, walk directly up to me, smiling up in one corner of his mouth all the while, and press my shoulders till I sank to my knees afore him. He would stroke my hair in languorous fashion as I did my best to please him with my mouth, though ‘twas tricky as his member was thick. I grew to like the taste of his seed. I had ne’er liked mine own but when it came from the rod of one so beloved, and entered my mouth warm and in gushes of joy, its consumption made sense at last. When he had finished, sometimes we would retire to a bunk, and kiss and stroke one another. At others, Brother Rufus would then get onto his hands and knees, and present his fundament to me, or lie on his back with his legs on my shoulders as I fucked him. How he loved to be ridden by me, by a monk dressed in all the accoutrements of his calling who would lay down a helpless, naked man on the cold flagstones and plunder his dignity. His face, sunny at any hour, became radiant and as I hit the spot deep inside him, his rod would stiffen again, sometimes spattering its second load of seed down on his belly when ne’er one of us had touched it. He liked to talk. “I die! I die!” he oft would cry.

In our final weeks at Valle Crucis, Brother Rufus taught me the art of kissing with the tongue. I so loved to kiss him. ‘Tis an old convention to speak of lips as fruit. How oft have we harked the phrase ‘lips like cherries’? Yet imagine being one who thirsts and hungers, and has a ripe peach handed to him? Wouldst thou not press it hard to thy mouth, sink in thy teeth, delight in its softness, let its juice flood into thy mouth and hawk it back till its sweetness reached the depths of thy throat? O, there is a singular truth in clichés!

I would play Tantalus no more. I tasted his lips like fruit. I have writ afore that his lips were full yet I have not inventoried their qualities. Forsooth, Dear Reader, a woman of Afric had not lips more sweet. His upper lip pushed out a little. Perchance the cause was the slight projection of his upper teeth that lent his smile its childlike charm. ‘Twas surmounted by twin curves that echoed the high arches of our church. Such curves might have seemed petulant, none too far from a sneer, ‘cepting Brother Rufus’ perpetual smile. His bottom lip matched the top in fullness. It seemed rolled, as if a finger had pulled it downward thus to expose the delicate inner flesh. With so much of this lip-flesh exposed to the air, it oft seemed chapped, on the edge of tearing. It lessened his beauty not one whit. I’faith, I desired to cradle him in mine arms like a child, smooth salve into those poor lips as I stroked his hair and kissed his eyelids. My boy.

When I did kiss him, I oft would kiss each lip separately, latching ‘pon one and sucking it ‘twixt mine own. I liked to touch the corners of my mouth to the fullest part of his, first the left corner, then the right, wiping my lips ‘cross them. I would push my tongue into his orifice, as he had shewn me, experiencing, mayhap, that same possessive joy a man feels when he penetrates a woman in her wet well. Sometimes I would bite those lips – i’faith, ‘twas more a dragging of the teeth o’er them than a biting in. Brother Rufus liked that. He would quicken during my ministrations, gasp into my mouth, grasp mine upper arms hard and grind himself ‘gainst me. This made me smile and quicken e’en as he had.

Best of all were the moments when we would lie side by side, as equals, our open mouths locked together, our tongues meeting in the middle, gently rolling o’er one another for hours, hours…

Reader, I weep. I know there will come a day when his last moments are not the first to spring to mind when e’er I think on him. That I will dwell instead ‘pon the fleeting paradise described above. But that day is not yet nor soon.


	9. Dissolution

‘Twas the sheep that forewarned us. A great wall of baa-ing went up in the west and soon was joined by the sinister refrain of marching feet. Our little band was in the refectory, making the best of our meagre portions of bread and beer. But yea, all feasting ceased as there came four resounding blows ‘pon the west front door. Four – not three. There were no trinities here.

Abbot Francis put down his crust and rose to his feet. He radiated sadness and temperance. Not one of us could take our eyes from him – a man at the pinnacle of his spiritual life about to be stripped of it all. With a movement of his hand, he bade us all rise and follow.

“Pray tell, who strikes our door at dawn? Be thou friend or foe?” he called.

“We are the men of Thomas Cromwell and the King. We demand entrance to this accursèd place. What say thee?”

“Say I –” began our leader as he unlocked the huge oaken door and swung it back to reveal the expected ragtag band of local militia fronted by a single official man of the king “- thou shalt find no curses hither.”

The king’s small man stepped into our church. He wore no soldier’s garb – he was not a fighting man but his ruthlessness spake loud from his sour face. He took us all in with a sweep of his eye and ‘twas enow. He wanted no more of us. Fixing his gaze ‘pon the artifacts of our Catholic faith instead, he swept up the aisle and grasped the gold cross. A billman hurried to his side with a cloth sack already open and the king’s man dropped the spoils inside without ceremony. Forsooth, without ceremony!

Cistercian brothers lowered their heads as the soldiers swarmed through the door and into ev’ry privy chamber our abbey possessed. Abbot Francis raised his head and spake once, “There be two of our brethren in th’infirmary. They are old-stagers and can bring no harm to any soul. I prithee, do them no harm thyselves.”

A passing soldier, arms full of holy silk, turned and sneered in his face. “What care we for them? Let them rot in their heathen sty. ‘Tis gold we are set ‘pon – golden idols for melting down and making money.”

The abbot nodded, and he sate himself down on the flagstones and he spake no more.

We wandered. In the distance, we harked the king’s men in their destructive rage that seemed fix’d ‘pon the church and abbot’s lodgings above all. Stained glass smashed. I did hark Brother Rufus mutter under his breath, “Wherefore? What good can wanton destruction bring? The smashing of a pretty window. The tearing up of books.” We sate in the cloister. My heart laughed bitterly to see ‘twas a most splendid dawn. The atrium entire was blazing with light. A sheep grazing on the green square recognised me – came over and pushed its good body into my hands. I fondled it, my mind in another place.

‘Cross the corridor, Brother Rufus’ mind was at work, his brown eyes flicking back and forth as he calculated impossible possibilities. Was he pondering o’er what would come of our love, as was I? Though I knew I should be mourning the death of our true faith, all I could think on was how we might no longer find a safe place to be together. Shame on me for my selfishness.

A soldier burst unannounced into the corridor, grasped the sheep I held by one horn and dragged her away. My hands clamped o’er the top of my head and I fell to my knees. She would die! She would die! My sudden tears were a flood.

There came a scream without. Not the scream of a beast this time but of a beauty. Matilde! ‘Twas her day for collecting washing. I looked ‘cross at Brother Rufus and saw a light in his eyes I had ne’er afore seen. His fists clenched at his sides and he rose with a purpose. “Nay,” I warned him. “Do not endanger thyself. ‘Tis a sin to fight and ‘tis a fight thou canst not win!”

He harked me not as he tore through the cloister, a comet with a fiery head and blazing white tail. I stumbled after.

She had tried to escape into the fishpond. There she stood in the weedy water, th’evidence of her attempted disgrace like a brand ‘pon her – her torn clothes and dishevelled hair, eyes swollen by the tears that still wracked her. “What have I done?” cried Matilde. The soldiers laughed and threw heavy stones that knocked her off her feet when they did strike. One soldier was disrobing himself and entering the shallows as we appeared.

“Call’st thyselves men?” roared Brother Rufus. The soldiers turned and discovered my belovèd stood ‘pon a ridge at the head of the pond and glowering down ‘pon them. “Thou namest us eunuchs yet what true men take a woman when she be mired like a fowl with a broken wing? So many of thee. I call thee cowards, one and all!”

For a moment, there was silence. Methought it the silence that precedes an eruption of violence but instead, there came more of the soldiers’ laughter. They turned from him as if they had harked naught but wind in the eaves. Another was shedding his jack and breeches as he prepared to enter the water.

Brother Rufus advanced ‘pon the nearest soldier, and went and stood as close by him as he had stood by me in our most intimate encounters. The soldier was half a head taller than he and stared down with a mocking expression, his helm casting a shadow ‘cross Brother Rufus’ features. Still, I could see my brother’s eyes flat with rage. He seemed to see not the soldier’s halberd glinting wickedly yet another length above the head of this tall soldier.

E’en then, I durst not believe he would do’t. Then I saw, as if in some horrid nightghast, a bursting upward of arms as Brother Rufus struck the soldier in the chest and sent him tumbling into the fishpond. The soldier who already waded there struggled out, his wet clothes making him clumsy, his visage like that of a gargoyle. “Fie! Fie! Thou art traitor to thine own creed!” he snarled. “Mongrel! Whoreson! Hypocrite!” And th’opponents ran toward one another, collided and tumbled to the ground, cursing and striking out both.

“O Brothers, come hither now!” I cried yet I knew they could do naught to help. Within moments, I had Abbot Francis, and Brothers Jocelyn and Thomas beside me, and I felt hands grasp my shoulders and urge me to kneel alongside them and pray. Pray I did but I could not remain where I was. Thus as my brothers prayed, I crawled, mewling and helpless, toward my stricken lover.

Many more had now entered the fray. They hoisted Brother Rufus from the ground and dragged him toward the trees at the northern end of the fishpond. “Worst of monks,” crowed the little king’s man strolling over with his bag of stolen gold. “What thou sufferest now shall not be because thou art a Catholic but because thou art a monk who fought back.”

“Let us see if it be true and thou art all eunuchs as they say.” A soldier in green and white livery tore away Brother Rufus’ clothes so his beautiful white body was exposed to their taunts. My love was apoplectic, striking out with fists and feet, till they grasped him by bole and cod, and set a noose about his neck. “O no,” said one in sing-song disappointment. “He be just as any other man.”

“’Tis easily remedied.” A halberd was heft and swung with precision, and I harked not his screams as mine own were all about me. I planted my face in the turf, tearing at it with fingers turned to claws.

His body, his beautiful body! Yon words were all I could think on, as if his body were the right and only manifestation of his soul. Yet all we good monks did was pray loud as we could as they strung up our brother and throttled him slowly, all the while beating him with branches torn from our own trees. When at last I raised my head, he was long since dead, face not purple as I had feared as he had poured out all his blood from the wounds to his nether regions and his sides.

A bloodied soldier wandered past me; aimed a kick at me as he went. “Thou woman,” he spat. “Wert thou his wife?”

“Aye,” I screeched to the mountains. “Aaaye!”


	10. The Art

I know not what became of his body. Nor do I know what became of the remnant of my brethren. ‘Twas Matilde who rescued me, creeping back in the dusk when the soldiers were long gone. I recall strong little arms in mine armpits, wavy light brown hair that smelled of duckweed dangling in my face. She laid me on a stone somewhere and tended to me during my days of stupor. O, how I have o’erlooked the kindness of women! And how misled I have been as to the true nature of men. I did think, perchance, my life up to that moment had been naught but a dream that died with the coming of a red dawn.

The old faith did not die so easily. Many powerful Catholic families remained and they still required spiritual succour. One such was the Powell family, the richest landowners in the area. The old man, Sir Roger Powell, had recently passed away and the title had fallen to his son, Anthony. Anthony’s sister, Beth, found me one day wand’ring the local market towns, petitioning recognition from the sellers, all of whom turned their backs to me, unwilling to be seen fraternising with one of mine ilk, however much they sympathised with my situation. I was cold. I was hungrier than I e’er had been. Beth fed me an apple and when night came, did wrap a shawl about my head and shoulders, and set me on a cart. Thus disguised as an old woman, I was brought to the Powell’s ancestral seat of Plas Hydref.

I told them I was no priest. They seemed not to mind, told me my very presence was gratification enow and it bestowed a blessing ‘pon their house. I was to have mine own cell where I might pray and observe th’Offices much as I would have done in the abbey. I would deliver quotidian readings from the Bible and assist any Catholic priest they succeeded in smuggling into the grounds. In my spare time, I might indulge any leisure activity I saw fit, whatsoe’er it might be. This last was spake by young Sir Anthony himself, the words embellished with a piercing blue stare and a conspiratorial nod of the head. He was another Abbot Francis, seeing deep into the natures of men such as Brother Aidan and me, though I suspected his motives had less to do with the understanding of Man as his exploitation.

I cared not. There was one feat only I desired t’accomplish and after ‘twas done, they might do with me as they wished. I would be their puppet, spewing daily devotions I hardly believed in.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

‘Tis nigh done, Dear Reader. Sir Anthony has furnished me with the tools I need and has even picked out a place where the finished work might live in their secret chapel in the cellar. In return, I am required to visit his bedchamber once or twice a week or he visits me in my cell. I prefer to go to him. When he comes to me, the acts I am asked to perform seem blasphemous in that holy location in a way they ne’er did ‘twixt Brother Rufus and me, as they were done in love.

There is no love ‘twixt Sir Anthony and me, though he is exceeding polite and kind and fair in all aspects of life ‘cepting this. His smiles and good manners continue as he welcomes me to his bedchamber but once he removes his clothes or touches me, all is changed. He doth not love pain, the way Prior Stephen once did but he cannot allow affection in his heart for a male bedmate. He must have me a slave or toy, a thing worthy only of degredation. E’en if he kisses me, he must block my mouth with his tongue, allowing no “give and take” of pleasure. I think, in his heart, he is ashamed of his needs and these encounters serve as exorcisms for him. It has ne’er been that way for me.

His body is lean and rather beautiful. If ‘twere not for the fact I hate the way he doth what he doth to me, I could have learnt to much appreciate it. He is older than me but not old – thirty-three or four, I would guess. His hair is long and doth seem sometime light brown, sometime dark blond, though his short beard and moustache have a reddish tinge. So doth the abundant hair that spreads ‘cross his chest like dragonfly wings, the line of the dragonfly’s tail descending past his navel to the thatch of his nether regions. Fleecier hair lives ‘pon his thighs. ‘Tis a sight I am privy to most oft as his favourite game is to straddle my chest as I lay on bed or wooden floor. Staring down ‘pon me with dead eyes, he agitates his privy member no more than a hand’s span from my face till it shoots its seed ‘pon my mouth and neck. If not this act, then ‘tis to have me kneel and to pull my hair from behind as he squats and mounts me like a dog. He doth pant like a dog also, ne’er slackening his pace, rapidly jerking his lithe member within me till it doth reach its conclusion. Anon, he is all good grace again, offering me a flask of water or a rag with which to wipe my face or arse whilst he chatters about the minutiae of estate management. He either sees not or ignores my tears. I must always call him Sir Anthony and ‘tis only now I recognise how a title distances one person from another, and I curse myself for ne’er calling my belovèd simply Rufus. Brother Rufus, Brother Rufus – had I kept that barrier ‘twixt us till the very end? I’faith, I had.

So now I title this piece “Rufus” only. I bend the soldering lead as my belovèd shewed me and trace those lovely contours with iron oxide pigment. The Powell family fix it in a frame in the west transept of the subterranean chapel where a light well above may strike it. My gentle, merry brother is immortal at last. See this stained glass monk bent over his lectern and book as blue light pours ‘twixt the fiery white columns behind him. But his eye be not fixed ‘pon his book but ‘pon the viewer. His brown eye with its sunrise tint beams out – the corner of his mouth tilts – his dimple is there. Rufus Vaughan invites us – Catholic, Protestant, heathen, all – to join with him eternally in his laughter.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you if you read to the end of this piece of original fiction. Comments are very welcome indeed.
> 
> The only time I regretted writing in the first person was when I realised I would have to keep up the "olde Englishe" throughout the narrative! I'm no great linguist so if you spot inconsistencies in my "thee"s and "thou"s, feel free to put me right.
> 
> Although this is not fanfiction, I find I often have an actor in mind when creating an original character, one whose physical characteristics and general tone make a good template. In "Vale of Tears", Brother Gregory, Brother Rufus, Prior Stephen and Sir Anthony are all based on British (and one Irish) actors. I'd love to see if you can guess who they are! 
> 
> Golden Boots


End file.
